No Way
by Insane Anarchist-aka Allie
Summary: Ellen, a dancer at the Cat Scratch Club, finds herself rescued from her dealer—but not her addiction—when a certain filmmaker decides to interfere. Fate pushes them to be in the same room when they can’t stand each other. M for language, no sexual content
1. Off

**Summary:** Ellen, a dancer at the Cat Scratch Club, finds herself rescued from her dealer—but not her addiction—when a certain filmmaker decided to interfere. Fate pushes them to be in the same room when they can't stand each other—but when Ellen falls ill, he's the only one who can help her.

**Author's Note:** I'm seriously hoping Ellen isn't a MS…let me know if she's heading in that direction.

I love the loud music, the way the bass pounds in my ears, and the way I have every man in the place wrapped around my finger. And a girl's gotta make a living—what better way to do it then dance the night away?

After the show I wrapped up in my coat—not for cold, for cover—and found Cynthia. "Hey, Cyn, y'ready?"

Cynthia looked me up and down for a second. "Damn, girl—someone's impatient."

"Hey, gimme a break. I haven't used since…this morning," I protested.

She just shrugged, grabbing up her purse. "Let's go."

Our dealer was a big rugged-looking man—shifty-eyed. But he had pure smack, and he had low prices. He and Cyn looked opposite ways, as per usual, as they made the exchange.

Suddenly he looked nervous. "Hurry it up," he muttered.

I smirked. "You're just as impatient for money as I am for smack," I said. He narrowed his eyes. "There's a nonuser coming, kid. I ain't got all night."

Sure enough, a man was coming down the street—and _damn_, he was pretty good-looking. I mean, he looked a bit…nerdy, I guess, but still… I elbowed Cyn. "Look at that piece of eye-candy, huh?"

She giggled. "Uh-huh, I see 'im. Fuck, I'm outta here." She shuddered, and I wondered idly when she'd last used. "Peace out, Cyn."

"Yeah—fuck off, Ells. Peace out my ass," she grumbled, walking off.

The dealer narrowed his eyes at me. "Buy quick or I'm gone, Babe."

I reached into my pocket for the money, but he was already moseying off. "Hey, get your ass back here," I snarled.

"Follow me, if you want it so bad."

"Don't you want your precious money, bastard?" I retorted. "I mean, a motherfucker like you don't stand a chance without a little bit of money to buy your own smack."

He rounded on me, yanking me off the street by my jacket lapels. "Listen, bitch-"

"Put her down," someone said firmly.

I turned my head to see the man from earlier. "Leave your ass out of this," snapped my dealer.

"_Put her down_," he repeated firmly.

The dealer snorted and dropped me. I stood up, staring after him. "Guess I'll have to move on, then," I snarled. I then rounded on the man—I could feel shivers threatening to…fuck. He saw me shudder. "Look, Mister-"

"Mark. The name's Mark—Mark Cohen."

"_Mark_—you just lost me my fucking dealer! How the fuck am I supposed to find someone now? He's gonna spread the word all around Alphabet City, and I didn't fucking ask for it!" I screamed. I shoved him back. "You're a fucking doo-gooder, Mark Cohen. Just keep your dick out of other people's business." I started off, tugging my coat around me. Maybe I could convince Cyn to loan me some…

"Alright, listen here-"

I rounded on him. "No, _you_ listen _here_. I don't need your help, ok? I gotta go find my friend now."

"You know, I have two friends that used to be junkies too," said Mark, following me.

"Oh yeah? Well, good for them—they're _clean_," I sneered. "Look, I _don't_ have HIV, I _don't _have AIDS…I'm fine. Why do you give a damn, anyway?" I stormed away, knowing somewhere inside my gut that Cyn was already gone.

The next morning I woke up shivering like crazy, and it was all I could do to throw on some clothes and head over to the building where Cyn's loft was. And on the way up the stairs I saw none other than Mark Cohen. I flipped him off without looking at him.

"Cyn!" I screamed, banging on the door. "Open the goddamn door, Cynthia!"

Cyn opened the door, looking haggard and sleepy. "Ells? It's—too early." She yawned.

"Yeah, well fuck the time. I need some."

She blinked. "Oh—hot white trash got you in tuh-rouble, didn't he?"

I banged a fist on the wall. "Fuck yes, now give me some!"

Cyn sighed and pulled the packet out of her back pocket. "Yeah, here. I'll get more today. Want me to get some for you?"

I hurriedly handed her my money, my hands shaking. "Yeah, fuck yeah—can I crash here for a bit? I don't think I can get back home."

"Sure." We went over to the sofa, and she passed me the needle I always had stashed at her house.

Suddenly the sound of a guitar reached us. I jammed the needle in my arm, letting myself forget my troubles for a while. The guitar was damn soothing, and I woke up a few hours later. Cyn was passed out on the sofa, an empty bottle of vodka on the floor next to her. "Thanks, bitch," I muttered, getting up to raid her liquor cabinet.

But that guitar kept bugging me, so I slipped out onto the fire escape. I looked up, watching the dude with long dirty-blonde hair play for a while. He had short sleeves on, and I could see track marks on his arms. They were old though. _So…this is one of Cohen's friends._ I slipped a leg over the railing, and then the other, sitting on the edge.

"You'll fall, you know."

I looked up to see the guitar player was grinning at me. I rolled my eyes. "Nah. I have good balance."

His gaze drifted to my exposed arms—I crossed them, glaring. "Watcha starin' at, huh?" I snapped.

"Your arms," he said, heading down towards me. I almost ran back inside, but then decided I'd at least hear the motherfucker out. He stopped halfway down my stairs, watching me cautiously.

"Look, if you're gonna go all fucking protective on me-"

But he interrupted me. "Look, I don't know your name, your history…anything. All I know is those track marks are fresh as anything, and you're killing yourself." He shook his head. "I used to use. I remember people telling me every day '_you're gonna die, man. You're a fucking idiot_.' He laughed humorlessly. "The thing is, you don't believe it until you get AIDS."

I almost flinched. He had AIDS…shit. He met my eyes. "I tested negative fourteen times. And on the fifteenth time I tested positive. Worst day of my life, save when my girlfriend killed herself because she couldn't handle the thought of having HIV."

I turned away so he wouldn't see the tears in my eyes. Fucking emotions… "Why are you bothering with me? We don't even know each other's names."

"I'm Roger," he said, walking up beside me.

I looked at him. "I'm Ellen."

"Ellen Mercado?"

I smirked. "Cat Scratch Club, yeah." I swung a leg back over, facing him. "Look, Roger…what I do with my life isn't your concern, ok?"

Roger shook his head. "It _is_."

"Only because you made it!" I snapped. _Fuck off_, I wanted to say. _Go fuck yourself and your fucking friend Mark Cohen._ But I didn't.

He waited for me to add to that, but when I didn't he said, "I know. I can't save everyone, but…I can save you."

I grimaced. "Why me?"

"Because you live two floors down from me," Roger replied easily, taking his guitar in his hands and starting to play. "I know that song," I said.

Roger grinned. "Then sing it."

"No fucking way. I don't sing…in front of people," I protested.

"Then pretend I'm not here."

"And the guitar's playing itself?" I snickered.

He shrugged. "Whatever works."

Sighing, I took a deep breath. "_So long since you've gone._

_I can't feel anymore._

_Time has passed, the seasons don't last_

_But she's still with you._" The key changed, and I had to switch into a high tone. "_Sometimes we don't feel what others see us feeling._

_We just see what we want to._

_But in the end all that outlasts_

_Is you._"

Roger stopped playing, looking at me. I glared. "Yeah, I know my voice is shit."

"No—you have a great voice," he said, shaking his head.

I rolled my eyes. "Haha."

"No, I'm serious," Roger protested. He held the guitar by the neck, and I winced. "Don't you have a strap?"

He shook his head. "No."

I groaned. "Smart. Very fucking smart."

"You ought to come up sometime—to the loft, I mean," he said, shrugging. "We could work on songs. I've been wanting to work with a soprano for a while."

I glared at him. "Are you…hitting on me?"

Roger looked mortified. "No! I have a girlfriend."

"So…you really only want me to come sing soprano?"

"Yeah."

I smirked. "Soprano one or two?"

Roger blinked. "What?"

"One is higher, two is lower," I explained patiently. "I'm aware that I'm a fucking music geek," I said, smirking.

He grinned. "Well…both, if you can."

"I can," I said confidently. "If you aren't lying about my voice not being shit."

Roger started up the stairs. "Not lying," he promised. "Come on up this evening, ok?"

"Um…sure. How's nine sound?" I said, hesitating a lot more than I meant to. I was really thinking of ways to piss Cohen off enough so he'd leave.

Roger nodded. "Yeah, works for me. Seeya, Ellen."

I went back inside—Cyn was waking up, groaning. I shook her to wake her up more. "And good afternoon, Sleeping Ugly," I snickered.

She pushed me away, rubbing her eyes. "Fuck off, Ells," she muttered.

I smirked. "Well, at least _I_ didn't finish off a whole bottle of Absolut by myself."

Cyn glanced at the bottle and grinned. "Ha—I beat your record, Ells."

"Shut up—I woulda had more, but you tipped me over, bitch," I grumbled.

She snickered. "So…I heard you talking with that hot rocker from upstairs. Gonna fuck him?"

I glared at her. "Cyn, he has a _girlfriend_. He just wants me to sing."

"Damn, girl. Gonna get a contract and leave me all by my lonesome?" Cyn laughed.

I thumped her upside the head. "I'm going up to his place at nine, Cyn. I'll probably be back down in an hour."

"And it only takes an hour to fuck someone real good," she said lightly, grinning.

"Fuck off." I glanced at the clock—three seventeen. Cyn was already bringing out the needles again. As I held it above my arm I hesitated. _"I tested negative fourteen times. And on the fifteenth time I tested positive,"_ Roger had said. Was that going to be me? Was I going to get AIDS or HIV and die? I glanced over at Cyn—the needle was already in her arm. I hesitated, then jabbed the needle in and released its contents—into the armrest.

That night I was freaking out and trembling, but I somehow managed to control myself—the word AIDS kept floating around in my brain. I was going to take the fire escape, but then I decided against it. Stairs were more…civilized.

I borrowed Cyn's black ¾ sleeve sweater and hot pink skirt, but I wore my same ankle boots. I ran a brush through my red hair, tied it back in a ponytail, and then slipped out, leaving Cyn passed out drunk on the sofa for the second time.

The door two floors up was a sliding door…but it made a good, loud knock.

And Mark Cohen answered it. He stared at me for a second, looking confused.

"Hey, Mark, is that Ellen?" said Roger, coming up to the door. He flashed me a grin. "Hey. You ready?"

I brushed past Cohen, nodding. "Sure. Got anything in mind?"

Roger shrugged. "Well…I have part of a song…but I don't have my last verse or a melody. Are you good at that?"

Smirking, I nodded. "Yeah, sometimes. Depends on how good the lyrics are."

"Do I sense a challenge?" laughed Roger, taking a seat on the sofa. I followed his lead, sitting down in the armchair. "Maybe," I replied, grinning. "Let me see what you have."

He handed me a sheet of paper, and I started reading. "Damn," I said, after I'd finished.

"What…really bad?"

I shook my head. "No…really good. You've got a talent for lyrics, I'll give you that." I grabbed up a pen from the table. "But you can't get your grammar. I'll be damned if I've seen anyone who has worse grammar."

Roger rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well…I wrote it at four in the morning, give me a break."

"Yeah, whatever," I snickered. I fixed the mistakes, and then set the paper down on the table and stared at it. I read the words over and over again, finding the rhythm and the flow. Eventually a melody started peeking through…it took it's fucking time, but it came all the same. I played it through a few times in my head, just to make sure I had it. Sure, the ending wasn't there, but we had a melody…as long as he liked it. It'd come out soprano two and alto one…who knew?

I took a deep breath, and then sang it. While I was singing Cohen stuck his head in, listening—but I ignored him, only paying attention to the song.

Slowly, I let the last note fade out…somehow a new verse had entered my head, and it'd just…come out. Fuck. I'd probably fucked up Roger's song now…but then why was he scribbling something down on the paper as if his life depended on it? I tugged on my ponytail, trying to nonchalantly look at what he was writing…well, damn. It was the lyrics I'd sung. Who knew I could write lyrics?

Cohen nodded. "Nice job," he said, looking…pretty fucking impressed. I smirked. "You didn't think I had any talent, did you, Cohen?"

He seemed surprised when I called him _Cohen_. "Er—Mark. Call me Mark," he muttered.

I grinned evilly. "No, I think I'll call you Cohen," I replied.

Roger looked between us. "Is there…something I should know about?" he asked, looking amused.

"Fuck no," I snickered. "You both seem to want to interfere in my life, but that's about it."

Cohen rolled his eyes and headed back into the kitchen, and Roger just shook his head. "Ok, then," he muttered. "Anyway—that really was great. I love the last verse, too." He grinned. "You proved that I wasn't stupid in asking you to come up here."

I laughed. "Haha. Your faith in me is amazing."

"Yeah, well…we can't all be perfect, now can we?" he said, smirking.

I just rolled my eyes. "Ah, fuck off." I saw a strange look in his eyes when I said that, so I continued, "Anyway…you want to put a guitar part to the melody?"

Roger nodded. "Sure."

But something had bothered him when I said 'fuck off.' What was wrong? I mean, I said it to Cyn all the time, and it never bothered her. So why did it get to Roger?


	2. The Beginning

**Summary:** Ellen, a dancer at the Cat Scratch Club, finds herself rescued from her dealer—but not her addiction—when a certain filmmaker decided to interfere. Fate pushes them to be in the same room when they can't stand each other—but when Ellen falls ill, he's the only one who can help her.

**Author's Note: **I'm really happy…I got a review within 24 hours of posting this! That's never happened before!! :D So thank you to _**geekchic79**_! Also, this chapter is a bit shorter…I'm hoping I can keep the length better as the story goes on. But I haven't been all that inspired recently…sorry.

So it became routine—I'd hang with Cyn all day, and then about nine or ten I'd go upstairs and hang with Roger. I ignored Cohen the whole time, and he ignored me. It worked.

Roger and I worked a lot on the song…well, on the guitar part. I mostly sang while he plucked away at the strings, trying to get _something_ done. Most of the time we just talked. I didn't think Cyn minded…until I came in at about two AM one night—earlier than before.

Cyn was still up, but probably drunk as a fucking skunk. "Hey, Cyn," I said, shrugging off my coat.

Cyn looked…pretty fucking angry. "Hey," she said—but her voice was definitely angry.

"What's up your ass?" I snickered, heading to the sofa.

"Oh, nothing," she said lightly. But her eyes were boring holes into me.

I rolled my eyes. "Then cut the death glare, Cyn," I muttered. "What, were we out of Absolut?"

She just snorted. "Yeah, right."

I turned to face her, almost glaring—didn't want to piss her off immediately. "Ok, spill. Something's up your ass, and I wanna know what it is."

"Maybe it's all the fucking time you spend upstairs," Cyn snarled. "Do I not exist? Am I just your _provider_ now, Ellen?"

Ouch—she'd switched to _Ellen_. Cyn hadn't called me _Ellen_ since we were in fucking high school. "What the fuck is your _problem_, Cyn? You're always passed out _drunk_ when I go up anyway!"

"Fuck off! That's not the point!" She held up my needle and syringe. "You've been fucking _wasting_ your share! The armrest is fucking _full_ of it! My fucking money went into this, Ellen—_my fucking money_! If you don't wanna use, stop fucking putting it in the _armrest_!"

I glared at her. "Oh, so that's it? Fuck, Cyn. Roger has _AIDS_! I don't wanna get AIDS! And I don't want _you_ to fucking get AIDS!" I didn't bother to mention that I hadn't wasted it all…I'd been using enough to keep myself from getting really sick, at least.

"I'm not fucking gonna get AIDS!" she screamed back. "We've both tested negative four times-"

"Roger tested negative _fourteen times_, Cyn! Fourteen fucking times! And he_ still_ got AIDS!" I snapped.

Cyn threw the syringe to the ground. "I don't fucking _care_! It's my own fucking business if I want to fuck up my life with fucking _heroin_, and not yours!"

"But it _is_ my business!" I yelled. "You're my _friend_, Cyn! My fucking friend! I _have_ to help you!" I was struck by how this was exactly what Roger and Cohen had said to me—except I'd listened…at least to Roger. But Cyn wasn't listening. She didn't hear how much fucking _danger_ her life was in.

Cyn looked ready to throw something at me. "Well, if being friends means you get to fuck with my life, then let's just not be friends anymore," she said coldly.

I didn't move. I didn't scream at her. I just stared. I couldn't do anything but stare at the motherfucking bitch. "Well," I said, clenching my fists, "fine. I'll get my stuff and go, then." So I did just that—I packed up all my stuff, stealing a few of her shirts that I liked most, and made for the front door.

"Hold it," said Cyn. She was on the couch watching a movie—probably a porno.

I rounded on her. "What the fuck do you want?" I snarled.

Without looking up, she said, "Use the fire escape. I don't want you using my door again."

That was the final straw. I walked right up to her and slapped her in her fucking _face_ before going out the front door.

I heard Cyn yelling behind me, but I didn't stop walking until I was outside. I then stopped, taking deep breaths and trying to stop the weird rushing noise in my ears. "Ok," I said to myself. "So Cyn kicked you out. She's probably high—she'll call you tomorrow, and say she's sorry."

But then I laughed. "Yeah, right."

"Hey, Ells! Where're you going?"

I turned to see Roger grinning at me from the fire escape. I shrugged, trying to keep my anger away—I wasn't angry at _Roger_. "Eh, Cyn kicked me out," I said.

Roger frowned. "Why?"

I gritted my teeth, staring at the ground. "Well, um…I was…" I shrugged again. "Trying to quit," I said finally. "And now I'm just gonna have to take the step and really quit. I don't have enough money."

Roger was looking down at me, not frowning as much as before. "Look, Ells…you live by yourself, right?"

"Yeah…so?" I challenged.

"_So_, maybe you'd wanna stay in the loft." He smiled. "I know how to help you, Ells. Withdrawal isn't fun—I've been through it, and I helped Mimi through it."

I ran a hand through my hair. "Um…wow. Alright. Thanks, Rog."

At first it wasn't more than a flu…at least, it felt like it. I was sick and achy, but no more than in a flu. But then it got worse—I couldn't think of anything except heroin. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and searching for some, knocking over a lamp and a table in the process. Cohen, whose room was right next to mine, came running in. "Ellen, what the-"

I grabbed his arms. "Please," I sobbed. "I _need_ it!" When he didn't respond I shoved him away and stormed out of the room, continuing my frantic search in the main room. Roger woke up then. "Ells, stop it," he said firmly.

I ducked around the sofa, away from him. I was sure I was going to throw up. "_Fuck_, Roger…you've _got_ to have-"

Roger quickly grabbed my wrists and forced me to sit on the sofa. I thrashed and kicked, but he wouldn't let me go. "Let me go!" I screamed. "Just fucking _let me go_!"

"Ells, it's for your own good," said Roger gently.

I wouldn't let his voice soothe me, no matter how hard he tried. I fucking _needed_ it—didn't they understand? "Don't fucking tell me that!" I snarled. "If it's for my own good, then why am I so fucking sick?"

"Because your body is getting rid of all the heroin," explained Cohen from across the room.

But that was the wrong thing to say. "I don't fucking wanna get rid of it!" I screamed at him. I then tore free from Roger and jumped Cohen.

I don't remember what I did—but Roger told me that I beat the shit out of Cohen, almost sending him to the fucking _hospital_. When he told me, I knew somewhere in the back of my head that I should be angry at myself, but I couldn't be. "Well, it's his fucking fault," I said. "He wanted to throw all my shit away."

Roger grabbed my hands, shaking his head. "Ells, you have to remember…we're _helping_ you. You _wanted_ to get clean, right?"

I stared at the poster-covered wall for a moment. Had I wanted this? To be sick…to fuck myself up like this? But…wasn't I fucking myself up with drugs? No, they helped me get rid of this sickness…or were they causing it? I groaned as a headache pounded behind my eyes. It was all too confusing…maybe the drugs would help me understand. I'd felt better after using, right? Wait, that wasn't right…they hurt me…I think. Roger wanted to help, that was why I was still here, in the loft.

Hadn't Cyn helped? When I came to her door, hadn't she helped me? Hadn't we helped each other, slowly becoming friends, finding each other on the street night after night, taking each other home…but had she helped because she knew she should, or because she was my friend…or because she felt obligated to after I helped her? Shit…it was all too much. I couldn't think straight.

Suddenly the floor was a hell of a lot closer than before. I felt something cool and hard underneath my cheek, and let my eyes shut.

"Ells…Ells, come on," someone said.

I groaned and opened my eyes. Roger's face swum in my vision, but my stomach flipped over—I had to sit up quickly so I could throw up all over the floor.

"Shit!" someone cried. I almost grinned between heaving—it was Cohen. I'd probably thrown up all over his shoes or something.

I wiped my mouth, spat, and curled up against the sofa, closing my eyes. I didn't care that I was cold, sick to my stomach, or probably laying in my own vomit—I just wanted to sleep.

"Ells…come on," said Roger gently. I shoved his hands away, but he pushed mine away and picked me up. He was warm, but I didn't like the movement: it made my stomach turn. But somehow I managed not to throw up, and he got me to the bed. He pulled the covers up around me, and said quietly, "Just sleep, Ells. If you need anything, Mark and I are in the front, ok?"

I nodded. The covers were a nice change from the hard floor, and I couldn't make myself open my eyes.

But I woke up later, my body aching and my mind consumed with the desire for heroin. It was all I could think of—my body was wracked with chills and my stomach was churning, but I couldn't worry about how moving might make me throw up.

I just knew I needed my fix, and there was only one place I could get it—Cyn's loft. I glanced at the clock: it read four-twenty-nine. I knew it was late, but I didn't fucking care. I slipped out of the loft, running down the stairs.

I got to Cyn's door and slumped against it, my knees shaking too much to hold me up.

"What are you doing?"

I didn't need to turn around to know who it was—Cohen. "What do you want?" I groaned.

"To find out what you're doing," he replied, leaning against the wall and looking at me.

I turned to look at him. "Why do you fucking care?" I snapped. "Why _me_, Cohen?"

Cohen sighed. "Didn't I already explain this?" he grumbled.

"Humor me," I snarled. "And no, you didn't."

He took his fucking time before answering. "Because…you're the only person who gave me—us—a chance to help you. Because out of all the addicts in New York you came to us, and let us help you."

That actually broke through to me somehow—through my desire, I actually heard him. Had I really fucking _presented_ myself to them? Fuck. I didn't want help—I just wanted my fix.

* * *

**_Right, um...I have no idea what actual withdrawal is like. So if I've done anything wrong in my interpretation, just let me know. It's not over yet, folks! Ellen still has a ways to go! :D_**


	3. It's All Too Real

**Summary:** Ellen, a dancer at the Cat Scratch Club, finds herself rescued from her dealer—but not her addiction—when a certain filmmaker decided to interfere. Fate pushes them to be in the same room when they can't stand each other—but when Ellen falls ill, he's the only one who can help her.

**Author's Note: **Pfft. Well, I finally updated a few days ago…and I'm happy to say that I have an actual plotline! Thanks to **_la. vie. maurelphaba_** for reviewing the last chapter! :)

_I looked up from my bed—the room was dark and unusually cold. I pulled my blanket closer, shivering. "Fuck…maybe the heat got turned off," I grumbled. I lay there for a while, trying to get warm and failing miserably._

_Suddenly I felt something prick my arm, and I looked down to see Cyn grinning at me, a needle in my arm. I instantly felt the euphoria of the heroin, and sighed contentedly. "Thanks, Cyn," I whispered._

_The grin didn't falter, and I studied her face closer. She looked…younger. Like the first time…oh, fuck. I felt nausea sweeping me, and I bent over and retched. The bliss of the drug had passed quickly, as if I hadn't been using for years. What the fuck was going on?_

_I looked around, realizing that I wasn't in my room at the loft anymore. But Roger and Cohen were staring at me from a distance. Cohen looked disapproving and frustrated, but Roger…he just looked blindly furious, as though I'd done something to _him_, not to myself. I glanced down at my arm, and yanked the syringe out._

_Cyn was back, her young face grinning at me still. "Like it? I thought you would," she slurred._

_My stomach turned over in a moment of déjà vu. "Cyn, what the fuck are you talking about? I've used before," I said. But my voice was hoarse and soft._

_Cyn rolled her eyes. "No you haven't, Ells. Here—it'll be better this time," she said, aiming a full syringe at my arm and jabbing it in. But this time it wasn't filled with heroin—a nurse was taking a sample of my blood. She smiled after she had enough, and left. "I'll have this back in a moment, dearie."_

_I looked around again. I was sitting alone in a doctor's office, up on the examination table. I swung my legs, trying to understand how I'd gotten here from being in that empty black space._

_But I didn't have much time—the clock on the wall jumped forward thirty minutes, and the nurse was back. But she wasn't smiling as she handed me a sheet of paper. "Honey, I'm sorry," she said quietly._

_I took the paper, wondering two things: one, if she was a lesbian, and two, if she was sorry for making me wait._

_And then I read the paper._

"_Ellen Mercado. Age 20. Test: positive," I whispered. No…it wasn't fucking happening…I didn't have AIDS! I wasn't HIV positive!_

I woke to Roger shaking me, his eyes alight with worry. "Ells! Ells, wake up!" he cried.

I shoved his hands away, gulping in deep breaths of air. My heart was pounding and I was trembling uncontrollably. "Oh, _fuck_," I breathed, looking up at him.

"Are you ok?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Mimi, his fiancée, was in the doorway, holding a wet cloth and looking concerned.

I nodded slowly. "Yeah," I whispered. "B-bad dream."

Mimi smiled at me, and walked over. She had only gone through withdrawal a few months ago, and seeing someone going through it hurt her more than Roger. She pressed the cloth to my head, looking a lot more relieved than Roger.

"That had to be a pretty bad dream-"

"Rog, hush," said Mimi firmly, shaking her head. "Maybe you don't remember, but bad hallucinations or dreams are normal in withdrawal." She took my hand, and I flashed her a grateful smile. The cloth was cool against my forehead, and I wasn't trembling as much.

But the dream had seemed so real…too fucking real for my tastes.

"Hey, is she alright now?" asked Cohen, sticking his head in the doorway. When he saw me awake, he actually smiled at me. "Feeling better?" he asked genuinely.

I considered snapping, but then decided against it—my throat was hurting…had I been screaming or something? I nodded slightly. "Yeah," I replied, hearing the word scratch its way out of my throat and die out.

Cohen nodded. "Well, you were screaming your head off a few minutes ago. Something about 'it's not fucking happening,'" he said, obviously trying to get me to smile—he wasn't very good at it.

But his words had brought back the dream. "I wanna get tested," I rasped. At that declaration, it seemed that they knew what I'd been screaming about. Mimi squeezed my hand, and exchanged a look with Roger.

"Why don't you wait a few days?" she asked gently. "Just until you're a little better."

I shook my head frantically. "No! I wanna get fucking tested _today_!" I shouted. It hurt like hell to raise my voice, but I needed to get my point across.

Mimi sighed, but nodded. "Alright. Mark, Roger, why don't you go call the doctor," she said pointedly. I knew she wanted them out of the room.

"Meems, Mark can do it-" Roger began, whining a little.

But Mimi shook her head. "_Go_, Roger," she said forcefully.

I hadn't really taken the time—or been able to take the time—to get to know Mimi all that well. I knew she danced at the Cat Scratch Club, because I'd seen her there a few times. She worked the earlier night shift, while I worked the latest—we only passed on occasion. I hadn't known she lived in the same building as Cyn, because I always came in while she was sleeping, probably. I also knew she was a year younger than me, and had been addicted to drugs until she'd fallen in love with Roger. The fact that he wouldn't be with her while she was on drugs had convinced her to quit.

But now I had a better chance to get to know her. She was forceful, sweet, caring, and a little manipulative at times. Sometimes she could change from being really sweet to suddenly sharp and angry—she reminded me of Cyn sometimes…the Cyn before the drugs. In high school Cyn had been exactly like Mimi. And then she'd discovered heroin, and it had changed her completely.

Mimi looked at me with her knowing chocolate eyes. "What brought this on, Ells?" She frowned. "You aren't using again, are you?"

I remembered the dream, and shook my head frantically. "No!" I yelped.

She smiled. "I didn't think you would." But she didn't say anything else, and I knew she wanted me to answer her first question.

"Look, Meems…I really don't wanna talk about it," I breathed.

Mimi squeezed my hand again. "I understand…but…try, ok?"

I nodded. I trusted her—I knew that she understood what I was going through. I mean, fuck, I'd _dreamt_ about heroin. I didn't know what was normal, but Mimi and Roger did. "Well…" I hesitated, sighing. "I dreamed about…it." I couldn't say the name—it would make it too real, too available, too tempting.

She nodded in understanding. Her eyes flashed with concern once, before she hid it. "In a good or bad way?" Mimi asked, cocking her head to one side.

Sometimes I hated how Mimi immediately got to the fucking _root_ of the problem. "Bad…I think. I mean, it was more of a memory. When Cyn—when I first tried heroin," I admitted. The second the word passed my lips I shuddered—it brought back so much, including that wonderful feeling of euphoria…surely I could just use _once_ more.

But then I saw Roger and Cohen's faces, and I gritted my teeth. Roger and Mimi had figured that I had only a couple weeks to go—I couldn't fall apart now. Not this close.

Mimi touched my shoulder. "Well…that isn't so bad."

I shuddered again. "But…it looked so _real_," I murmured, shaking my head. I couldn't believe that it hadn't been real…but it _had_ been. It'd been my memory of the first time Cyn got me to try heroin. _'Like it? I thought you would.'_ She'd been fucking wasted on Absolut and heroin, and she had pulled me outside of her parents' house, plopping down on the stone while I sat on the bench. She'd suddenly pulled out a syringe and grabbed my arm. _'Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?'_ I'd snapped.

Cyn flashed me a bleary smile. _'Helping you get high. You've only had one drink—you don't like Absolut enough to drink it.'_ And she'd injected me…

"Well, it wasn't," said Mimi firmly. "Listen, don't worry about it. You can go get your test today…" She hugged me briefly but tightly, and tears welled up in my eyes. I rarely was hugged or shown any affection from my mother. She'd all but disowned me after she found out about my addiction. "You're almost through it, ok? Just hang on for a couple more weeks, and you'll be alright." There was a promise hidden in her words. _I promise you'll be alright. I won't let anything happen to you._

I nodded, running a hand through my hair. "I must look like shit, huh?"

Mimi laughed, clearly happy that I was shrugging off the dream—well, I hadn't, but I wasn't going to let it outwardly bother me. Not with people around, at least. "Yeah, pretty much," she giggled. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

An hour later I emerged from the bedroom, having showered and put on clean clothes for the first time in ages. I twirled once in front of the glass, looking at my reflection while the boys were in the kitchen. I was very thin—thinner than I'd ever been in my whole life—and my eyes looked a little dull, but still were vibrant green.

Mimi luckily was thin too, and her skirt fit well—it was dark blue with sparkles. I used to only wear sparkled at the Cat Scratch Club, so it was freeing to wear them outside the club. I looked critically at my hair: it was curling up a bit from the wind blowing through the open window—and maybe the broken skylight. It actually was getting shiny…I hadn't cared much about my hair in the past few months, but when I heard the boys coming back in I surreptitiously fluffed it up, aiding the curling process.

Roger grinned at me. "Well, it's nice to see you out of bed," he said, giving me a quick one-armed hug.

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks for the concern," I said, winking.

He ruffled my hair. "Welcome," he said. He paused frowning, then said, "I called the doctor…we probably should get going."

My stomach flipped over. "Uh, yeah. Let's go."

Roger hugged me fully then. "It'll be fine," he said. Like Mimi before, he seemed to be promising that it would be alright.

I smiled slightly. "Yeah. I know."

Mimi and Roger linked arms and headed towards the door, while I hung back. "I'll catch up with you guys in a second," I said, moving towards my bedroom—I needed my coat. I ran back inside the bedroom, grabbed the coat, and went back out.

I shuddered as the cold air hit my exposed neck—stupid coat. It didn't button up all the way. I rubbed my neck to warm it up, muttering, "Stupid fucking coat. Can't even have enough fucking buttons." I wrapped my arms around myself, also cursing the cold New York weather.

It was even colder outside. I shivered once, but luckily Mimi and Roger didn't notice—Cohen had come down the stairs after me. "I'll come too," he offered, shooting me a smile.

I knew he was trying to get back into my good graces, but it just wasn't going to happen. I couldn't make myself stop hating his guts—even though I was doing exactly what he'd said to do in the first fucking place. I knew I was just being…well, pretty fucking silly.

I turned away from him and walked on, clutching my coat around me tightly. Even as I looked up, clouds were gathering. I gritted my teeth and walked faster.

Once we got there, I was assaulted by the too-clean doctor's office smell. I grimaced—_fuck­_, I hate that. I focused on breathing through my mouth, not thinking about what I was here to do. I was scared out of my fucking _mind_, but I wasn't going to show it—so I leaned against the wall, shutting my eyes to the dismal room.

'_Ellen Mercado. Age 20. Test: positive…'_

I jolted awake, taking deep breaths. Mimi touched my shoulder. "You ok?" she asked softly.

I nodded. "Yeah. I'm alright."

She smiled and squeezed my hand. "You're up soon. Do you want us to go in with you?"

I noticed her careful use of 'us,' managing to include Cohen. But I nodded all the same. "Ok. Ok. Sure. Yeah. Whatever." I looked at the floor—my voice was uncertain and broke several times.

"Mercado? Ellen Mercado?"

The nurse was standing at the door, looking around—for me. I stood up, and she smiled at me as I walked over to her.

"Ms. Mercado, come with me," she said, heading inside. I followed her, and she tried to shut the door before the others could get inside.

I stopped it with a hand, and she gave me a look. "This is a private test, Ms. Mercado," she said, smiling still.

I grabbed Mimi's hand, feeling more than a little angry—who the fuck did she think she was to tell me I couldn't have my friends with me? I glared at her, my temper rising quickly. "Listen, they're my best friends—they're coming with me," I growled.

The nurse nodded slowly. "Very well."

First she weighed me—I was a bit shocked when I saw the scales read _101_. I'd really lost a lot of weight. I'd been at a steady 110 for a while, needing to be thin for my job. But I hadn't eaten much in the past few months, so it made sense. My body had been rejecting almost every fucking thing I put into my stomach.

Second she measured me—I was 5'7, as per usual. I hadn't grown in years.

And then she led me—us—into a room. Luckily there was enough seating room with me on the table. The nurse examined me thoroughly, then left, promising to return.

I sat for a while, listening to the others talking quietly. But I got restless, and so I started pacing the room.

"Settle down, Ells," said Mimi gently. "You'll be fine."

There was that fucking promise again. It was getting pretty fucking annoying—I already got the idea. But all the same I nodded, and forced myself to sit down. I fluffed my hair, unbuttoned and rebuttoned my coat, shifted my weight several times, and then finally stared at the clock.

Half an hour passed before the nurse came back in. She took a sample of my blood, and then left with an encouraging smile. Her reappearance had done nothing to ease my nerves—in fact, it had made me even more nervous.

I ripped pieces from the paper sheet on the table and rolled them into little tubes.

I scuffed designs on the white cabinet doors.

I watched the clock for fifteen minutes straight.

I taught myself how to rotate my hands opposite ways.

I sang through mine and Roger's song ten times.

And then the nurse finally came back in, a piece of paper in her hand and her face unreadable.

I knew then—I had AIDS. I was positive. I swallowed, staring at the paper like it would kill me by just touching it. I knew I'd fucked up bad this time. There was no going back from here—instead of spending my money on heroin, I'd spend it on AZT. I'd die young, and it was all my fault. I couldn't do anything about what was printed on that paper. What I'd done to myself couldn't be undone. I'd killed myself, and I couldn't do a fucking about it. I couldn't help myself now—fuck, no one could. Not Roger or Mimi or Cohen—or even Cyn, for fuck's sake.

I was a murderer. Or suicidal. Or a suicide case. Something.

I couldn't think straight—my brain rushed through one idea and the next, not giving me time to focus on one thought before it was gone. But one thought remained constant.

I'd killed myself.

* * *

**_Haha, evil cliffhanger, I know. But I actually managed to update!!! I'm very happy. I feel like I got a little rushed at the end, but I knew I needed to split this one and the next one up, and so I _had_ to finish it! Anyways, hope you enjoyed it! :)_**


	4. Unwillingly Willing

**Summary:** Ellen, a dancer at the Cat Scratch Club, finds herself rescued from her dealer—but not her addiction—when a certain filmmaker decides to interfere. Fate pushes them to be in the same room when they can't stand each other—but when Ellen falls ill, he's the only one who can help her.

**Author's Note:** I feel like it's been forever since I updated…sorry. But my updates will always be infrequent/uncertain, because freshman year is very annoying and busy. So anyways…sorry for leaving you with that evil cliffhanger. :D In other news, I MET ANTHONY RAPP!!!!!!! This is why you get a new chapter!!!! =^.^= (I am…starstruck. He autographed my poster. I _shook his hand_. He smiled at me, and said he would LOVE to hug me, but that would make everyone else want to. I feel special. :D)

I remember learning from my middle school counselor that the definition of suicide is "the act or instance of killing oneself." Did this count as suicide? Homicide? Maybe. Was it Cyn's fault? "The killing of one person by another." Homicide.

No, that wasn't it either. So…what was it? An accident.

_Death by AIDS. Death by HIV. Cause of Death: HIV. Cause of Death: AIDS._ I swallowed, feeling so fucking afraid I thought I was gonna run out of the room. Mimi squeezed my hand.

The nurse handed me the paper—I wouldn't meet her eyes. I knew what I'd see there. Sympathy. Sadness. Or maybe she wouldn't care. Maybe she would be used to it—used to people getting AIDS or HIV.

I slowly unfolded half of it, sliding my fingers along the creases to smooth them out. I didn't want to see the results. I looked down at my name: _Mercado, Ellen._ I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. I licked my lips nervously, and I was surprised when none other than Cohen grabbed my arm. He probably was sensitive to this sort of thing, having several friends who were HIV positive. He didn't want to see someone else find out they were HIV positive. _Fuck it_, I thought, and unfolded the other half.

I looked down quickly, before I could stop myself.

_Test: negative_.

I felt tears stinging my eyes. My life didn't have such a close expiration date as I thought. Suddenly I realized just why I'd quit using—I _would_ kill myself. Accidental suicide. That was it—what it would have been if I'd continued. I couldn't help myself—I hugged Roger tightly. "Thanks," I whispered, before releasing him.

Roger smiled. "No problem," he whispered back.

Mimi hugged me firmly, refusing to let me go. I hugged her back, suddenly wanting to cry—in relief. All the time spent going through fucking _withdrawal_ had been worth it. I didn't have AIDS, I wasn't HIV positive… Everything just felt _right_.

We went back to the loft after that, and the 'high' faded. I was nauseas again, and my head was pounding. A little voice in the back of my mind told me that I was safe—I could use just one more time, and the migraine would be gone…the nausea would be gone.

_And my friends would be gone_, I told myself sternly. Because the drugs would drive me away—a self-imposed distance from all clean people. I couldn't fucking start up again…not now.

_You could_, that nasty voice told me. _Just one more time…you could quit again if you wanted to._

_Fuck off_, I growled at it. I wanted so badly to laugh at myself—I wasn't a fucking _schizophrenic_, I was just having what Roger aptly called 'post-withdrawal doubts.' Sitting down on the hole-filled couch, I kicked off my boots and leaned back, smiling up at the familiar broken skylight. Yes, I could do this.

"Well, that wasn't so hard, now was it, Ells?" said Roger, plopping down next to me.

I grimaced as I heard springs breaking beneath us. "Careful, or you'll break what's left of the sofa," I teased.

Roger grinned and shifted—another spring broke. I just rolled my eyes. "Well, it isn't _my_ sofa. Otherwise I'd have to murder you with a toothbrush."

"A…toothbrush?" he questioned, his grin getting bigger.

I nodded. "Yes. A toothbrush from a garbage can."

"Why are we talking about toothbrushes?" asked Cohen, coming over from doing something else—messing with his camera, probably. My suspicions were confirmed when I saw he was still carrying the fucking thing.

"Well," I said, smirking, "it looks like the camera has taken your place, Rog."

As Roger tried to get the camera, I slipped over to the door—and was caught. "Where're you going?" asked Roger. I heard him stop chasing Cohen.

"To see Cyn." I turned to him, reading his expression. "Not for drugs, Rog, I promise," I said. "I want to see if I can fix things with her…even if she's using, we might be able to be friends."

Roger sighed, and I saw Cohen shake his head and sit down, as if disappointed. "Look, Ells…she won't want to be your friend anymore," Roger said, looking very apologetic and sympathetic.

"Well, I'm still gonna try," I said, turning and walking out. They didn't follow me, thank God.

I stopped outside Cyn's door, preparing myself mentally. As I raised a hand, I heard the stairs behind me creak. I turned around to see Cohen…fuck, he had a habit of finding me outside her door. "Yes?" I said curtly, planting my hands on my hips.

"Just heading to work," he said, looking less than amused.

"Oh, fuck off," I grumbled. "I'm not getting drugs, Cohen." When he looked skeptical, I snarled, "I swear, ok? Jeez, just _fuck off_."

He shrugged. "Alright, fine," he said, raising his hands and walking down the stairs.

I stuck out my tongue at him when his back was turned. But then I blushed and winced—it was so fucking _childish_. Stupid fucker. I should've flipped him off—I wouldn't have been embarrassed then. Sighing, I turned back to Cyn's door, knocked, and then shifted back, just in case she was still angry.

"Come in," I heard her call…very softly.

My heart was pounding in my chest: something felt wrong, so fucking _wrong_… I slowly opened the door and walked in.

Cyn was sprawled out on the sofa, staring blankly at the wall. She looked up at me, but otherwise didn't react.

Ok, so something was _really. Fucking. Wrong._ "Um…hi, Cyn."

She blinked. "Hi. Remember…" She broke off, tears gathering in her eyes. "Fourteen times." A raw, humorless laugh suddenly tore itself from her throat, and a tear slid down her cheek. "Four. Fifth time's the _charm_."

It hit me then. "Oh, God…Cyn…" I went to try and comfort her, but she jumped up, slipping over the back of the sofa. "Tell you something, Ells. You're lucky…fuck, you're lucky." She shook her head, and sat down on the window-seat.

I followed, sitting down—but keeping a few feet between us. "Cyn…God, Cyn, I'm so sorry…"

Cyn shrugged. "It's my fault." She met my eyes then, and I saw how red they were. "I'm not gonna stop. I'm gonna die anyway, so I'm fucking gonna enjoy life while it lasts."

I couldn't understand her logic, but something told me that her calmness was only gonna last as long as I didn't talk a lot. As she walked over to one of her two tables, she kept sticking her hand into her pocket, and then taking it out again.

"Here," she said, holding out…Oh, fuck it all. My old, faded, blue sweater that I'd left so many years ago. "I—I've been meaning to give this to you."

I didn't imagine the evil smirk on her face. "Um, well…thanks, but…why?" I asked, wondering if I'd said too much.

But that evil smirk didn't go away. "'Cause."

I took it, wondering exactly why… And then I saw the sharpie-written note on the sleeve. **I stole your pen, you stole mine…give and take, give and take, girlfriend.**

Cyn didn't look evil anymore. "Remember that day?" she said quietly.

I nodded. I was struggling to keep the tears back. "Yeah." Cyn and I had hated each other at first, but the change had happened when we stole each other's pens…we realized how silly we'd been, doing stupid things like stealing pens to spite each other, and we'd decided to be friends. She's written the note half in her pen, half in mine. _'So we never forget,'_ she'd said.

This was a goodbye.

"Cyn…"

"Ells, it's fine. _I'm_ fine. Go on." She smiled. "See you later?"

I couldn't focus enough to say no, so I just nodded. Cyn smiled a little bigger, and then sat back down on the sofa. Swallowing, I left.

I remember running down the stairs…but I don't remember getting to Central Park. After the running, I remember suddenly realizing I was really cold, and outside, sitting on a bench…and it was getting dark. I could imagine Roger and Mimi looking for me, both worried…hell, I might've imagined Cohen, but he was at work.

I curled my legs up to my chest, wishing for a coat or a hat or gloves or a scarf…fuck, _something_ to help me warm up.

I sat there for ages, thinking about Cyn and her AIDS. I shuddered each time I thought the word…acronym. Cyn had AIDS. I'd_ told_ her…and yet…it felt like my fault. I felt like I could have—_should_ have done more to get her off drugs. I should have gotten Roger to talk to her, forced her to do something, anything…stolen the drugs. But I was going to lose my best friend.

And that was when the tears started. At first they just tricked out—but then they flowed, pouring out, streaming down my face until I thought I couldn't cry anymore.

"Ellen?"

I jerked my head up. A familiar—and more than a little unwanted—face swam in my vision. Wiping my eyes, I snapped, "What do you want, Cohen?"

Cohen hesitated, staying standing in front of me before sitting down beside me. I was too depressed to care. I let him sit there, offering silent comfort—and it did feel nice to have someone else there, even if it was _Cohen_. The tears came again, and I only noticed that Cohen had pulled me against his chest when I stopped crying.

I disentangled myself from his arms, trying and failing to feel angry. I just felt hollow—hollow and cold. I shivered, and Cohen put his jacket around my shoulders. "Th-thanks," I stammered, shivering almost uncontrollably.

"Come on, Ellen," he said quietly, putting an arm around me and standing me up. I tried to take a step away, but staggered and almost fell face-first on the ground.

Suddenly I was caught, the ground swimming only a few feet from my face. Huh. How'd that happen?

"You ok?"

I felt an arm around my shoulders, both holding me close and supporting me. I knew I should have pushed Cohen away, but I was too cold and numb to care.

He led me back to the loft, going so far as to carry me up the stairs and lay me down on the sofa.

"Oh, God…Mark, what happened to her?"

"I don't know…I found her in the park, just…sitting there."

I forced my eyes open, and noticed that I still had Cohen's jacket around my shoulders, as well as another blanket. Roger sat down on the sofa, looking at me with a lot of concern. Concern? I was concerned for someone…

I choked as the tears came again. Cyn. Cyn had AIDS.

Roger hugged me tightly, letting me cry on his shoulder. I eventually stopped, wiping my eyes and trembling.

"What's wrong?" asked Roger softly, still holding me close.

"Cyn has AIDS," I blurted. I couldn't think of any way to say it gently.

Roger looked…very fucking sad. "Oh my God," he said—but it was more of a sigh with a few words. He looked at me like he was waiting for me to cry again, but I didn't. I stared through him, clenching my teeth and refusing to cry again.

"Ells!"

I turned around to see Mimi, looking relieved—and cold, too. She threw herself down on the sofa beside me, grabbed me in a tight hug, and stroked my hair. She'd heard my proclamation, apparently. "I'm so sorry," she whispered into my ear.

I nodded, closing my eyes tightly and still not letting myself cry.

That night I slept out on the sofa—or tried to sleep, more accurately. I'd told everyone I was fine, and eventually they'd surrendered and gone to bed. I was sitting on the window-seat, staring out at the pollution-clouded moon when I heard a door creak. I ignored it, thinking it was someone up to piss.

But then someone sat next to me. Even in the dim light I could see the short blonde hair—Cohen. What the fuck was his problem?

"You ok?" he asked softly, looking out the window like me.

I nodded once, hoping he'd go back to bed.

But he didn't. He turned and faced me, sitting cross-legged on the seat. "You aren't," he said knowingly.

I turned and copied him, but I was glaring. "Maybe not, but it isn't your fucking business."

Cohen sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well…can I try and help anyway? It helps to talk…trust me. I was there when Roger found out he had…" He trailed off, sighing and looking away.

I grimaced. I hadn't thought much about his part in all this—the one who was doomed to watch his friends die. Well…maybe I could try and be civil. "Look…maybe it helped you and Roger, but I…I don't want to talk about it."

He nodded, still looking at the floor. "Yeah…neither did Roger." He laughed—humorlessly, and I was reminded suddenly of Cyn. I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Neither did I, honestly. But eventually we talked…and we wished we'd talked sooner." Cohen then did the last thing I expected—or wanted, really. He leaned over and hugged me, pulling me close so my head rested on his shoulder. It was an awkward move, hesitant and a little jerky.

I wanted to pull away, but I didn't—I couldn't, somehow. Hugs were _nice_. And even if he was insecure with it, it was a nice hug: tight, but not too tight…very comforting. The kind of hug your best friend gives you.

He then did something that I _really_ didn't expect—he kissed the top of my head. There wasn't any romantic meaning behind it—it was meant only to be comforting and soothing. And, funnily enough, it was.

Cohen released me, looking as though he might be blushing. "So…if you ever wanna, you know…talk…I'm here." And then he got up and basically ran back to his room.

I laughed quietly, surprising myself. Poor, awkward, insecure Cohen. But…he had good intentions. Maybe it was the day's events, but I think I felt my heart open a little to him.

Maybe we could be…civil. Not friends, but…civil. It might work.

I smiled to myself, heading back to the sofa and laying down. I felt my eyelids drooping, but shot up when Cohen's possibly-blushing face appeared in my vision. I rubbed at my eyes, shaking my head. Ok, so he'd offered comfort…but that didn't fucking mean I was going to just _stop_ hating him. Hate doesn't just disappear…it leaves little traces of anger behind, that always are going to pop up. So maybe I could be civil with him, but I wasn't gonna get all friendly. I'd let him hug me in a moment of weakness—one that wouldn't happen again, my best friend having AIDS or in any other situation.

I sighed, curling my knees to my chest. He was so fucking _nice_…too fucking nice. He was one of those nice guys that would get their ass kicked in a fight because they wouldn't hit the other guy.

Stupid Cohen. He was keeping me from getting to sleep. I glared at the wall for a second, before I suddenly realized something.

_Talk_. Maybe I _needed_ to talk…however stupid it sounded. I knew Cyn wouldn't talk—she was saying her goodbyes, and she wasn't gonna bring up her AIDS specifically. So I ran through my options.

I ruled out Roger immediately. He'd been so forward in telling me he had AIDS…and I couldn't bring myself to face his_ acceptation_. He was dealing with it pretty damned easily, and I needed…someone to cry with.

Mimi was my second option. But I couldn't…I just _couldn't_ put that on her. I'd heard about her nearly dying, and I wasn't _about_ to bring any painful memories back. She'd gotten it the same way Cyn had—drugs. Same way Roger had, too. No, I wasn't going to do that. Mimi was one of the nicest people I knew, and to bring up bad memories would have felt _so fucking wrong_.

Oh fuck. That left me with only one option—Cohen. Could I really talk to him? As I sat there, thinking, I realized that if I'd just put aside my hatred for a little, then he'd be the perfect person to talk with. He was in the same position: his best friend, best friend's girlfriend…and another friend they'd mentioned were all gonna die, and he had to watch.

I swallowed. _'If you ever wanna, you know…talk…I'm here.'_ He'd offered. Maybe I _could_ take him up on his offer. But would he think we could be friends?

"Fuck," I whispered. I didn't know what to do…usually I asked Cyn this sort of thing, but I couldn't think time. I had to get the answer myself, and I didn't like what I was thinking.

I sat there for several more hours, I think. The sun was peeking over a few buildings before I finally managed to sleep, having finally made up my mind. There was no getting around it—I would kill myself or drive myself into the ground with lack of sleep if I didn't.

I had to talk to Cohen.

* * *

**_A very introspective chapter...one that was coming, I think. I'm pretty proud of this chapter...it's longer than chapter one!!!! If you see any spelling/grammar mistakes...tell me. One question...should I hold off the discussion for another chapter, or go ahead and stick it in chapter five? ^_^_**

**_I wrote this listening to Adam Pascal's CDs. They're very good for inspiration._**

**_Thanks to la. vie. maurelphaba for reviewing the last chapter, and geekchic79 for reviewing chapters one and two!!!! You all rock!!! :D_**


	5. Going In Circles

**Summary:** Ellen, a dancer at the Cat Scratch Club, finds herself rescued from her dealer—but not her addiction—when a certain filmmaker decides to interfere. Fate pushes them to be in the same room when they can't stand each other—but when Ellen falls ill, he's the only one who can help her.

**Author's Note:** In a bout of shameless self-promotion, check out my RENT oneshot _Grey Eyes_! This chapter was by far the hardest to write—I kinda mirrored Ellen in this chapter with mental struggles. :D And…it got off track a little, too. But it needed a break in tension.

The next day I walked down to Cohen's work—it had some funny name…but I couldn't remember it for the life of me. Not that I cared. I waited around for hours in the cold, before finally I caved and went inside for a while.

When I saw Cohen come out of the elevators, I dashed out the door. By the bus stop, I paced around, torn with indecision. On one hand, I was fucking _down there_ already—I should talk to him anyway. But on the other hand, I _hated_ him…so I'd probably end up pissed off.

My mind was made up for me when Cohen, cheeks flushed from the cold, went up and started to buy a bus ticket. I groaned softly, and then ran up to him and made a grab at his sleeve. I accidentally grabbed his hand instead—I jerked my arm back, trying not to blush.

He straightened, looking confusedly at me. "Um…hi, Ellen," he said, frowning.

I swallowed. "Do—do you think you could…um…walk, today? I…I wanted to…" I looked at my boots. "…talk."

"You're really going to take me up on my offer?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Nodding, I blushed a little. "Look, if you're just gonna tease me about it then never mind," I snapped, starting to walk off. I knew it was a bad idea, I just _knew_ it.

But then Cohen caught my hand. "I won't tease you," he promised. "I'm glad you're going to talk about it."

I realized I was glaring at him, and tried to force it away—but I couldn't. I kept glaring at him. I didn't trust his promise.

"Let's just walk, ok? Come on." And he pulled me with him, still gripping my hand with his as we walked. I would have torn my hand out of his grip, but his hand was warm and mine was icy cold.

I shivered as a gust of wind hit my exposed neck. "So…how…how did you…find out?" I asked softly.

Cohen sighed. "I found out when Roger's girlfriend, April, killed herself."

Without meaning to, I sucked in a breath. "Damn. That's…that's just horrible."

"Mmm. It wasn't fun."

I rolled my eyes. "No shit, Sherlock." I held my breath and counted to ten, forcing down my anger. "How…how did he tell you?"

"He didn't," Cohen replied softly.

I almost stopped, but his hand was still locked with mine—I was pulled on. "What…what do you mean?" My voice barely came out. I hadn't expected that at all…and despite my hatred, I felt _sorry_ for him.

Cohen sighed, and I realized I was bringing up long-hidden painful memories. But I wasn't stopping now, and neither was he, apparently. "I found her…in the bathroom, still bleeding a little and warm. I—I couldn't move…not even when I heard Roger come in. I remember-remember trying to make some sound, to let him know that he shouldn't come in." He broke off, and I consciously made the decision to squeeze his hand. "But you couldn't," I whispered, filling in the blank that he hadn't managed to fill himself.

"No. I couldn't."

That closed that subject—he shut his mouth tight, his lips forming a thin line. I felt…kinda bad for bringing that up. I wasn't upset that he hadn't continued…I could picture it for myself. Roger coming into the bathroom, seeing Cohen standing there, staring at his dead girlfriend…

I swallowed. These guys had a life that belonged on TV. Throw me and Cyn into the mix, and you've got a whole fucking _party_. "It takes a bit, you know," I murmured. "For it to set in. I still can't believe Cyn has—has…" I choked back tears.

Cohen let go of my hand—only to take it with his other and wrap his arm around my shoulders. I clenched my teeth at the closeness, but the wind picked up, and I found myself happy—he never seemed to _feel_ cold…or maybe I was just so much colder myself.

And then little white flakes fell from the sky. I cursed softly and pulled my coat around me.

"Cold?" laughed Cohen, giving me a little squeeze with his arm.

I laughed too, surprising myself. "Not at all," I said, rolling my eyes. Snow blew itself down my coat, and I jumped, shivering and rubbing at my neck. "Stupid fucking coat," I grumbled. Cohen was laughing, clutching his sides and doubled over.

Looking around, I noticed we had gotten to the park. Snow was gathering on the ground, and I grabbed up a little in my hands. Cohen didn't notice. I squished it together into a rough snowball, and threw it into his face. He straightened, face red with cold—and he didn't look amused. He wiped his face off, cleaned his glasses…and then calmly threw a snowball at me.

I squeaked, turning away so it only hit the back of my head. A little snow fell down the back of my coat, and I shivered. I rounded on Cohen, trying and failing to glare. I resorted to just flinging snow at him, and he did too.

Eventually I was cold and wet, and I stopped. "Truce," I panted, looking up from my position on the ground.

Cohen nodded, flopping down next to me. "Truce," he agreed, laughing. His cheeks were flushed from the cold—still—and he was grinning at me.

I shivered and pulled my knees up to my chest, and Cohen put his arm around me, pulling me close to his side. It was the same sort of motion as the night before—completely without romantic intent…just friendly. Maybe before my withdrawal I would've yelled at him…but like the handholding thing, I was just fucking _cold_. _Cold_, I told myself. _You're cold, he has body heat._ Sure, it bothered me…but I didn't push him away.

Until I realized the snow was soaking into my skirt. I jumped up, and Cohen followed, realizing what was happening. I tried to look and see if I was soaked, but I couldn't. "Fuck—I'm supposed to be _flexible_," I growled, spinning around in circles to try and see.

"…What are you _doing_?" asked Cohen, laughing. He seemed to be doing a whole fucking lot of that today. And at me. I hit his shoulder, but not too hard. "Trying to see if my skirt got soaked," I said.

He grinned. "Want me to check?"

I stared at him for a second, taking in the fact that he was fucking _serious_. "No fucking way!" I cried, backing away from him. Cohen was grinning mischievously, advancing on me.

I ran away behind a bench, glaring at him. "You are _not_ looking at my ass, Cohen." I sat down on the bench, facing away. I had suddenly remembered my reason for being out here with him in the first place. I shivered—from the cold and from my memories. This little exchange had reminded me too much of Cyn…before the drugs.

'_I hate snow,' I muttered, glaring at the white drifts._

_Cyn grinned at me. 'Why? It's fluffy and white and…you can catch it on your tongue.'_

'_And it's cold and wet,' I added. 'And it hits you in the face.'_

_She rolled her eyes. 'But that's part of the fun! You're such a spoilsport.' Sticking out her tongue, she threw a bunch of snow at me. I squeaked, turning away to avoid getting it in the face._

'_Cyn! What the heck?' I shouted, shaking the snow out of my hair._

_Cyn was laughing her head off, doubled over. She fell into the snow, and I threw some on her._

'_Oh, look who's getting into the fun!' she giggled, brushing herself off and standing up. 'See? Snow isn't _all_ bad.'_

_I grinned. 'No, it's not.' And I threw a snowball at her face—missing, of course. She laughed again, shaking her head._

"Ellen?"

I blinked, coming back to reality. "What?" I was too surprised to remember to snap.

Cohen was staring at me, frowning. "What were you thinking about?" he asked, sitting down next to me.

"Cyn," I whispered. I then dropped the bomb. "Do you think about it a lot?"

"Think about what?"

I bit my lip. "About…about when Roger's going to die."

Cohen sucked in a breath. "Yeah. All the time. I try not to."

I stared at the untouched snow in front of me. It was still falling, catching in my hair and going under my collar. I sighed. "I'm trying not to think about Cyn. But…it's hard."

Cohen laced his hand with mine. I only noticed in passing, barely paying attention. "It's not easy. Being the one to watch your friend die…and it's really hard at first." He squeezed my hand. "But it gets easier."

It was then that I noticed he was still holding my hand. I pulled it away, stuffing my hands into my pockets. "It doesn't feel like it will," I muttered childishly.

"Not now. Not yet. But eventually it will. I didn't think it would…April's lipstick note on the bathroom mirror stayed in my dreams for ages. _'We've got AIDS. I'm sorry. I can't do this.'_ That's all she wrote…all she left for Roger. And I kept seeing those words. They didn't go away. Roger fell into depression, not playing his guitar, barely eating or sleeping…" Cohen's voice was shaking, and I thought he was going to cry if he kept talking.

So I stopped him. "And then he quit, right?" I had to get him on track—he was running himself into a hole.

Cohen nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yeah. I found him sitting in his room, staring at the two syringes…and then he threw them out the window. _'No more,_' he said. _'I'm not doing this shit anymore.'_ And he didn't…for a few months. Then he got his hands on some, and started up again. Collins had to stop working for a while to help me." He broke off, sighing. "Is Cyn quitting?"

I shook my head. "Little fucker said she wasn't gonna," I whispered, tears gathering in my eyes. "She said—said that she as gonna enjoy life because she had so little left. And she…" I felt a raw sob tear itself from my throat, and hot tears spilled down my cheeks. I took my hands out of my pockets and put them over my face, sobbing as quietly as possible. Cohen pulled me close, and I buried my face in his chest, glad for the comfort.

Why did Cohen have to be so fucking _nice_? It was like…all he cared about was making sure the people around him were happy. And I _hated_ him…right?

But I kinda doubted it in that moment. I'd let him hold my hand, hug me…I even had a fucking _snowball fight_ with him! I wanted to pull away, but I was warm there and he hugged pretty damn well… Besides, he was keeping the snow from going down my coat.

Eventually I pulled away and wiped my eyes. "Thanks," I whispered.

Cohen shrugged. He looked embarrassed, but I couldn't tell if he was blushing—stupid cold air. My cheeks were probably red too.

I took a deep breath, and finished my sentence. "She was saying her goodbyes. She gave me back this old sweater of mine…" I stopped to swallow the lump in my throat. "I really…I just don't want…" I couldn't let myself cry again.

I felt Cohen catch my hand, and I readied myself to go on. "I don't want her do waste her life away. If she's using her money for drugs…then she isn't using it for AZT!" I wiped a few stray tears, and then whispered, "I don't understand it."

About an hour later we got back, and I went right to bed and laid there—I was emotionally exhausted, and more than a little _physically_ exhausted from the snowball fight. Cohen and I had stayed out as long as we dared, talking…and it helped. It fucking surprised me, but it had helped.

We covered a range of topics—I cried a lot, which was very fucking embarrassing…but Cohen didn't seem to mind. He told me everything that had happened when Roger found out: first, he hadn't really reacted, just like Cyn. He walked around in a daze, saying stuff and then not remembering it. He woke up laying on the floor in the middle of the loft a lot.

Then came the anger. Cohen had described it as "a wall of anger. Something that you can't stop, can't control, can't go over or under…and so you have to go through it." I could only imagine what he went through with Roger.

The third stage was becoming suicidal. That scared me—would Cyn try and kill herself? Or had she already passed this stage and that was why she was still on the drugs?

And finally was the halfhearted acceptance. Roger had taken his AZT, and regained his quality of life. And he'd quit using. Somehow I didn't see that with Cyn.

Now I was messed up in my mind, having a fucking internal argument with myself. I kept seeing Cohen holding my hand, putting his arm around my shoulders, holding me against his chest as I cried…and it was so…so fucking _sweet_. He didn't seem to _care_ that I hated him…he treated me like any other of his friends.

Some part of me wanted to just give up and accept his friendship. To just…stop hating him—as must as I could—and try and be civil. It might make staying at the loft easier—if we weren't going back and forth fighting or exchanging snippy remarks, a whole fucking lot of tension would just disappear.

But…could I really just do that? I knew without hesitating—yes. Especially after today. I wouldn't have too much trouble putting aside the majority of our—well, my—differences and just…being civil. Friends…not yet. Well…maybe.

I hit my pillow in frustration. Why couldn't I fucking let things stay the same way? _Because you let him hug you, hold your hand, laugh with you, and be normal with you…it's your fault. You _liked_ being friendly with him today._ The answer was too easy to get, and I hated everything about it.

I mean, this was _Cohen_! Mark fucking Cohen, the person I'd basically told to fuck off the first time I met him.

_Before the drugs_, an evil little voice said. _He was right all along, and you just don't want to admit it._ I swallowed. Fucking voice was _right_. He hadn't gotten to me because he didn't have AIDS or HIV…but Roger had. If the situations had been switched…I would be fine with Cohen and be calling Roger _Davis_.

I glanced at the clock—it read _9:37_. "Oh, fuck it all," I groaned, rolling out of bed. I couldn't stand it any longer—I fucking had to talk to Cohen, and for the second time in a day. But I couldn't keep sitting there, going around the same circle in my head all night.

_I hate him._

_He's nice. Why do you hate him?_

_He came to me at the wrong time._

_So? You've done what he said to do in the first place. Why not be civil with him? Why not be friends? Why shouldn't you give it a try? If it doesn't work…then everything can just be like it is now, and it won't matter._

_No, it doesn't matter. Wait…yes it does! Hate doesn't go away! I hate him._

I walked to the door, and then leaned against the wall, tears suddenly flowing from my eyes. Why the fuck was I crying? I kept wondering why as I sank to the ground, curled my knees to my chest, and _sobbed_. I hadn't cried like this since withdrawal…and this was worse. Somehow, it was worse—it was like my whole world was breaking into small pieces, and the pieces were being burned. In withdrawal, only one piece of my life was being broken, being burned…

The door creaked open. I tried to stop myself from crying, but the deep sobs kept coming. I dropped my head against my knees and wrapped my arms around my head, not looking at whoever had come in.

Someone sat next to me and held me close, stroking my hair and whispering soothing nonsense to me. I clung to them tightly, wondering briefly if I was restricting their breathing.

"Ellen…shh, it's alright. Everything's alright now."

A fresh round of sobs tore from my throat. _Cohen_…Cohen had come in. I didn't know why, maybe it was to see if I was alright or asleep… And now he was here, sitting on the floor and doing his best to comfort me. I was…I was fucking _touched_. He was so nice, so…sweet.

Fuck. Sweet? Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! Sweet—Cohen was sweet. Was he?

_Yes_, that fucking half of my mind said.

I knew it was right. He tried to make everything ok for me…me, the emotional nutcase. I couldn't keep myself straight, and _I_ wasn't the one with AIDS.

Suddenly I felt Cohen shift, and the floor wasn't beneath me. I stiffened and opened my eyes slightly—Cohen was carefully laying me down in my bed, gently pulling the covers over me… I was embarrassed. I didn't want to be the person who needed someone to pick up the pieces of their broken emotional psyche.

But that was what I was. And Cohen had stepped into Cyn's place to do just that.

* * *

**_Aww. Poor emotional basketcase Ellen. Anyone else seeing what I'm seeing between Marky and Ellen?? :D Things are picking up now...there's still a ways to go, though, don't fret! :P_**

**_Please. Read _Grey Eyes_ for an unnamed 'she'/introspective story. I'm trying out something different, and I'd LOVE feedback. ^_^ R&R, please, on both! And point out any spelling/grammar errors. Thankies!_**


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